That Feeling When Someone I’m Fucking with Doesn’t Know About the Blog

It’s subtle, of course, because I’m not going to bring it up in conversation, like, “Hey, have you read that thing that I post on the Internet about how I’m a total slut?” Nope, I feel like that line isn’t going to help get me laid, or help inspire confidence in the man I’m trying to fuck, because, okay, you guys, after all this time, yes, I have learned that a sexually liberated woman is kind of the most intimidating thing to a guy. Feelings of inadequacy, low self esteem, a lack of confidence – throw those into the sexual mix and you’ll find yourself facing a pretty boring outcome. Guys want to feel like they’re in control, like they’re men. They don’t want to feel like they’re being overpowered or overshadowed by some woman (especially if she’s younger, and especially in a sexual sense.) And while I’m aware that kowtowing to the male ego is a distinctly unfeminist thing to do…well, a girl’s gotta laid every once in a while, so where’s the harm in a little bit of fun?

Anyways, back to the topic at hand. If I find out, through some slight of hand of conversation, that some male with whom I am potentially romantically/sexually entangled is unaware of the beast called Fuck Feast, well, then. Game on. Because, you see, I’ve started to find that the guys who know about Fuck Feast tend to use it as a jumping off point for a very brusque, very boring, “Hey, you have a sex blog, do you wanna fuck?” conversation. (The answer to that always being, “No!” Hasn’t anyone heard of game around these parts??) So when a guy spits game free from the onus of Fuck Feast, I think, “Ah, yes, flirtation. The good, old fashioned, pre-Internet, sex blog-free way.” 

Of course, what ensues is a rapid panic attack about how maybe I should shut down my blog, and my Facebook, and my Fuck Feast Twitter, and my personal Twitter, and my Instagram, and my Reddit account, and all my OK Cupid accounts, and I should ask people not to talk about these things, and then I should go home and hide all my sex toys, and then I can lie there and wait, patient and virginal, and wait to see what happens next. Although there’s a distinct part of my brain that can’t stop posting slutty pictures on Instagram, or wearing short skirts at work, or word vomiting quasi-racist, classist bullshit onto Twitter. 

I kind of always cycle through this emotional phase whenever I think that maybe I can pull off not being Pilar Reyes of Fuck Feast, and maybe just being Pilar, girl next door. But, then, I realize, there’s always going to be a freak-a-leek inside me, dying to get outside, so, sex blog or no sex blog, raunchy Twitter or not, regardless of my slutty pictures on Instagram – this is just the total package. This is what he’s getting. And there’s not really any point in hiding all the grotesque aspects of my personality by deleting various social network presences, because regardless of the existence of my Twitter account, I’m still thinking those nasty, perverse thoughts. He’ll probably find out about them sooner or later, and also my penchant for exhibitionism would also come about with time. I can’t imagine what kind of weird shit I’d be getting into if I didn’t have my social media outlets as a way to express my sexual angst, although I did have a coworker one time who came up to me in the middle of the shift and said, “I was just masturbating in the bathroom, do you think anyone noticed?” Things aren’t that bad for me quite yet, thank god.